When does the old get thrown out with nothing to replace?
When is emptiness the better choice?

When does the space become more important
Than all of the accumulated stuff?

Old, beautiful things,
Collected over time,
We call them the
Tools-of-the-trade.
Not found easily
In the marketplace.
Searched, scrubbed,
Rubbed dry,
And oiled.
Purchased with pennies
Spilled from tattered
Pockets.

Materials and the embellishments, aptly called findings,
Collected over time, for use in an unknown future
When working with a particular piece, incomplete,
A need is seen by the eyes and soul
Of the one pair of hands.

The maker’s dreams, give forth a knowing, that in time
Things find very specific places, fulfilling the certain need.
A touch of magic then passes through the maker,
Creating a whole and complete picture.
Signature placed with smile.

Yet, life seems shouting for exploration, for more than this!
New territories appear to call out with undecipherable words,
Words nonetheless, speaking to the heart, yearning.
The eyes and soul not yet finished; one pair of hands
Begging to hold things never imagined.